


with your shield or upon it

by lord_is_it_mine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bottom Steve, Bottom Steve Rogers, Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, One Shot, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Riding, Sexual Content, Top Bucky Barnes, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, feelings guaranteed, it's sort of in snapshots that span both movies so yeah, there's some angst but it gets better by the end I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 02:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1801438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lord_is_it_mine/pseuds/lord_is_it_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a tradition in Spartan culture that when warriors left to do battle, their mothers or wives would hand the men their shields and say “return with your shield or upon it”. Victory or death. There was nothing else. A soldier’s shield was most important asset on the battlefield. If he was triumphant, he would carry it home held high in pride. If he was killed, his body would be dragged from the battlefield atop it. Victory or death. There was nothing else. </p><p>Steve Rogers first reads this from a dusty library book on February twenty eighth, nineteen forty-two, curled up next to the faulty heater in his and Bucky’s apartment while wrapped in every single quilt they own. He then begins to form an image in his mind, blurred in shades of black and white as though from a drawing- it is a picture of Bucky, back turned, shoulders square, a shining shield strapped to his back as he walks towards the enemy. Away from everything he is leaving to fight for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with your shield or upon it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [burninglikeabridge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burninglikeabridge/gifts).



> I was watching a documentary on Spartans, and the idea for this fic slapped me right in the face. additionally, this is a belated birthday fic for ma femme Tawni~ happy birthday sweetheart!

There was a tradition in Spartan culture that when warriors left to do battle, their mothers or wives would hand the men their shields and say “return _with_ your shield or _upon_ it”. Victory or death. There was nothing else. A soldier’s shield was his most important asset on the battlefield. If he was triumphant, he would carry it home held high in pride. If he was killed, his body would be dragged from the battlefield atop it. Victory or death. There was nothing else.

Steve Rogers first reads this from a dusty library book on February twenty eighth, nineteen forty-two, curled up next to the faulty heater in his and Bucky’s apartment while wrapped in every single quilt they own. He then begins to form an image in his mind, blurred in shades of black and white as though from a drawing- it is a picture of Bucky, back turned, shoulders square, a shining shield strapped to his back as he walks towards the enemy. Away from everything he is leaving to fight for. Steve knows it’s only a matter of time before Bucky enlists or gets drafted- he always said he’d never go willingly, but nothing puts food on the table or fire in the furnace like a soldier’s wage these days. Before Bucky is sworn to protect his country, he is sworn to protect his best friend. Steve knows this. He also knows that Bucky, one way or the other, is going to leave. He doesn’t know if Bucky is going to come back with his shield or on it. Or at all. There’s also the matter of him coming back in more than one piece. Or with pieces missing. In Sparta there was nothing worse than surviving defeat. Not much has changed in that respect. They don’t drag you home on your shield anymore though; they ship you back in a big pine box.

The clock strikes six-thirty and Bucky comes through the door. Steve looks up at him and fleetingly wishes he could draw this moment. The light above Bucky frames him so well, his hair wind-mussed, cheeks a harsh red from the winter wind that claws at the paper thin windows. Steve captures the image in his mind, wondering how many more times he will get to see it before it becomes a memory that will someday fade completely. Bucky sees Steve and smiles, kicking the door shut behind him and striding across the room, lifting the blankets from his shoulders only to crawl under them as well, draping them in heavy layers over both their heads. It’s warm and dark in the small space, their breath thick and tangible between them. Bucky sways forward, catching Steve’s face and kissing him, slowly and easily, like he’s done a thousand times. Steve decides to start counting kisses from now until the last.

“Evenin’ sweetheart.” Bucky whispers against Steve’s lips after the first of the dozen kisses that follow. “How was your day?” It’s inane small talk, and it’s their favourite pastime (okay fine, their _second_ favourite pass time). Bucky lifts the rather large (in proportion to Steve) textbook out of the other’s lap and smiles bemusedly. “Learn anything interesting?”

“Nothing much.” Steve shrugs. “Did you know that homosexual relationships between members of the Spartan army were so common, that it became customary for women to shave their heads and wear masculine garments on their wedding night? It made them more appealing to their husbands, who were far more used to having sex with other men than with women by the time they got married.” He says all this like it’s no big deal to be discussing the sexual practises of ancient cultures with another man after making out with said other man under a pile of blankets.

“Huh, well what do you know? The Greeks were a bunch of queers.” Bucky laughs. “We’d fit right in. I’ve always said we were born in the wrong century, Stevie.”

“Why do you still call me that? _Stevie_.” Steve frowns, pretending to be much more annoyed by the childish nickname than he actually is. “You’ve been calling me that since we were seven.”  

“Yup. And that’s what I’ll be calling you ‘til we’re seventy. Now what’s for dinner? _I’m starving_.”

Turns out they only have one can of soup and half a loaf of bread. This wouldn’t be a problem, except Bucky doesn’t get paid for another two days. Of course this isn’t the first time they’ve gone without food- nor is it the longest. Steve heats up the soup on the stove and they eat in silence, Bucky much faster than Steve, who is still pondering the Spartan armies and their shields- he’s also still fixated on Bucky leaving. He wonders how he’ll ever be able to think about anything else.

“I wouldn’t belong in Sparta either.” He finally says. “Their whole lives, they were trained for nothing other than the purpose of fighting- of _killing_. If they couldn’t do that, they weren’t worth anything. I can’t even _breathe_ right; I’d never be able to survive military training.” Then _or_ now.

Under any other circumstances, Bucky would have laughed and told him that he was thinking too much about something that was never _actually_ gonna happen. Instead, he gets out of his chair, kneels in front of Steve and says,

“If the way you pick your battles is any indication, I’d say you’d fit right in. And besides, I’d protect you. Like I always have.” _Like I always will_ is the part that goes unspoken, but nonetheless is understood.

They kiss for the thirteenth time since Steve started counting, mouths still hot from the soup. Things escalate quickly (like they often do) and the number of kisses gets to twenty something before it’s forgotten entirely. Steve urgently grabs at the back of Bucky’s head, fingers pulling through his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp. A noise of approval rings in the back of Bucky’s throat, and he stands, easily picking Steve up and wrapping the smaller man’s legs around his waist, gripping lithe thighs and making his way towards the open bedroom door. He almost makes it but then gives up, settling for pressing Steve up against the wall and sliding his lips to Steve’s throat. He sucks in a bruise that’s gonna be difficult to cover, but it’s even more difficult to care because of the utterly perfect reaction he gets for doing it- Steve’s nimble hands make quick work of his buttons, and soon he’s moaning and ordering ‘bed- _now_ ’ under his breath and Bucky can’t resist (nor does he _want_ to). His shirt is gone before they hit the mattress, and the rest of their clothes follow in short order.

Steve takes control of the situation, turning them both over, straddling Bucky’s hips and rolling his own. It’s all known to him from previous repetition; every movement is memorised, all touches touched with practised ease- however, he remains reverent, adding each of Bucky’s gasps and moans, each of his own groans and shivers to the lengthening list he keeps tucked away in his mind. No matter how he tries, there’s still the thought lurking in the shadows of his head somewhere- he knows he’s going to miss moments like these more than he can say. So he keeps his voice down and his mouth open, kissing Bucky hard and with no shortage of desperation, sucking on his bottom lip and drawing out noises from the other man that he is unashamedly addicted to.

He works himself open with spit-slicked fingers, a breathless and uneven chant of Bucky’s name falling hapless from his lips. He takes his sweet time, a small and satisfied smirk appearing on his face when Bucky throws his head back, keening brokenly and begging “oh _god_ , Stevie, _please-_ ”. Steve waits longer on purpose- he waits for the moment when he knows that Bucky’s about to snap before lining himself up and pushing himself down, pressing his hands against Bucky’s chest to keep himself steady, a long-held breath escaping his lungs. Their eyes lock, and neither of them moves a muscle. There is a significant air of finality about this moment, a finite quality to their straight stare. It’s not as if Bucky has even decided to go yet, but they both know that time is running out, like a train racing break-neck fast towards the end of the tracks.

Steve moves first, refusing to let any of the numbered minutes they have left go to waste. He plants Bucky’s hands firmly on his own hips and rides Bucky hard, and fast, and _frantic_. He should be careful, but he isn’t- he’s breakable, he’s fragile, but he doesn’t _care_. War isn’t gentle- it takes and takes, so Steve gives and gives, leaning forward onto Bucky’s chest and wordlessly pleading _stay with me, stay with me- **stay with me**_. The smooth push and pull of their bodies becomes a mindless rhythm, the tireless grind bringing up a white hot wave inside them that builds and builds and crests and crests and crashes. They come with simultaneous intensity, foreheads resting together, hands locked and holding on.

It takes Steve twice as long as it normally does for him to catch his breath, Bucky holding him gently through the coughing and the aftershocks, sliding down and kissing the paleness of Steve’s hipbones (which are sure to bruise from the strength of his grip). He sighs apologies into the tender skin stretched thinly over bone, being pulled up for one more sloppy kiss- full of exhaustion and forgiveness. He gets up a moment later and soon returns with a damp cloth and the bundle of blankets from the living room. He cleans them both off and wraps them both up in the quilts, pulling Steve’s slight form to himself and pressing his lips to the crown of Steve’s head.

Steve is a maudlin drunk- and he’s equally maudlin in the moments just before sleep.

“They came home either with their shields or on them.” Steve murmurs.

“Who?”

“The Spartans. When they left to fight, the last thing they were told by their wives was ‘return _with_ your shield or _upon_ it. After the battle, the fallen warrior's shield was used as a litter to carry his body back home.” _Victory or death._

“I wouldn’t let you go.” Steve continues after several heartbeats have passed between them. “I wouldn’t be the one to hand you your shield and send you away when I knew you might not come back.”

“You wouldn’t have to. You’re not my _wife_.” Bucky chuckles softly. “And soldiers don’t even use shields anymore.”

“No, they use _guns_.” Steve shudders. “And pine boxes. _Don’t leave_.”

“ _Never_.” Bucky promises. It’s empty. They both know it. “End of the line, remember?”

* * *

Less than a month later, Bucky ships out. Steve doesn’t say a thing about Spartans.

* * *

When Captain America’s emblem becomes a shield of all things, the significance of it isn't lost on Steve Rogers.

* * *

Pulling Bucky off of that table, breaking him out of that Nazi base and marching back into camp by his side- it feels like the very definition of coming back _with_ his shield.

The next night, after Bucky’s been poked and prodded and finally cleared by the medics, they’re back in the barracks, in Steve’s private room (just one on a list of things he didn’t ask for when he became Captain America). Bucky’s drinking, although he’s been told not to go too far. He doesn’t give a shit. He just escaped _the jaws of certain death_ for God’s sake. He thinks it’s funny when Steve threatens to take away his booze. He _doesn’t_ think it’s funny when Steve actually does. Not until he gets a reminder that if their positions were switched, he’d be mothering Steve out of his mind. He drunkenly concedes and leans to the left, his head resting on Steve’s ( _huge_ ) shoulder while they sit with their backs against the wall.

“ _With_ your shield or _upon_ it.” He slurs into the small space between his mouth and Steve’s throat. “What are the _fucking_ chances?”

“Of what? Me getting a shield or me being the one to rescue _your_ ass for a change?”

Bucky laughs.

“Both. Neither. What were the chances you’d ever get any bigger? Or ever _breathe_ normally? What were the chances that right when I’d expected to feel the cold kiss of death, you’d kick down all the doors in between us?” Bucky’s the one who’s maudlin now. But he’s also the one who’ll never let it show.

_What are the chances that when I finally get you back in my sights, you don’t need me anymore?_

“Pretty good, I’d say.” Steve replies after a prolonged silence. There’s another pregnant pause before he continues, displacing Bucky and looking him in the eye. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what.” Bucky replies flatly, a little perturbed that he’s been robbed of his headrest.

“You’re my shield. You’ve protected me since _forever_. You’ve carried me home _countless times_. I wasn’t gonna leave you. It was my turn to drag _you_ back.” _My turn to be the shield._ “And don’t even think that I won’t need you anymore. I’m always gonna need you around, Buck.” He smiles. “If that wasn’t obvious, then you’re at least twice as dumb as you say you aren’t.”

“Huh?” Bucky answers profoundly.

“Case in point.” Steve laughs, right before he gets tackled to the floor.

“Shut up and kiss me, punk.” Bucky orders. Steve does. And somewhere in between popping the buttons on Bucky’s uniform and biting down on his shoulder when he comes to keep from waking up half the camp- Steve forgets why he ever thought he should count kisses as something he was going to run out of. Somewhere between getting dressed and kissing Bucky goodnight, he says:

“We’ll save _each other_ now. It’s about time I started paying off my debt.”

“Damn straight, Rogers.” Bucky pulls him down for the forty-seventh heart stopping kiss of the night, and then heads slowly for the door. Steve wishes beyond reason that they were back in Brooklyn, where they could sleep in the same bed.

“I love you.” He blurts right as Bucky leaves. Bucky smiles.

“Ditto.”

* * *

Bucky falls. The train that Steve is left clinging to rams a gaping hole right through his chest and _fuck_ , it’s like his heart is gone and his body keeps going.

He never thought about coming back alone; neither with his shield _nor_ upon it. His shield fell through like the ground fell through.

There’s no body to bury. They put up a cross anyway. Steve sits next to it and drinks for old time’s sake, though it’s like pouring alcohol down the drain- he pours some on Bucky’s empty grave.

He just escaped _the jaws of certain death_ for God’s sake. Not even Captain America could have survived a fall like that.

Captain America doesn’t know if he can survive falling for someone like Bucky Barnes.

He doesn’t know if he can survive surviving him.

He never thought he’d have too.

* * *

As it turns out, he doesn't have to; not for long.

Soon enough, it’s all over.

Soon enough, he sleeps.

When he wakes up in world without polio, a world with bright lights and tiny phones that don’t plug into the wall, he feels exposed. Vulnerable.  Unprotected in every sense of the word. He keeps his head down and his voice steady and he jumps feet first into the twenty-first century, fighting for whatever cause he can hang his tattered hat on. He wakes up in a world without Bucky, so maybe not much has changed after all, Buck’s still gone. Buck’s still gone and Steve’s mounting number of victories will never cease to make a hollow pitter patter in his chest where laughter used to be. He tries his damndest to be the best soldier he can, the hero that everyone thinks he is; he is no longer the man that no one is around anymore to remember him as. It’s the price of coming back without one’s shield.

And then there he is, on the bridge there plain as day; hair a little (a lot) longer, eyes so much darker, the glassiness of them glinting in the sunlight like a mirage in the desert- Steve wonders if maybe he’s just delirious.

“Bucky?” Steve breathes in disbelief.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” Bucky asks.

_You’re my friend. You’re more than that. You’re something we didn’t have a word for back in the day and something I’m pretty sure they haven’t come up with a word for yet._

He used to be Steve’s shield.

He’s a weapon now.

Until he falls from the burning helicarrier, barely conscious as the very world is pulled out from underneath him, Steve has been trying to understand what it felt like to plummet out of life itself, when the one person who could save you- who had always saved you- was just as helpless to catch you as you were to reach them. He knows what it’s like now.

When he wakes up in the hospital, everyone’s worried about different things. The doctors are worried about his metabolism burning through the drugs too fast for them to work. The nurses are worried about whether he’s comfortable or not. Sam is worried about how many channels are on the TV in his room. Steve’s not worried. He’s on the other side of worry now, the place where your worries are realised and confronted and then gone in a flash. Like Bucky was. Steve doesn’t think Bucky survived- so he doesn’t have anything to worry about. Not until he realises that he didn’t just wash up on the banks of the river. Not until it occurs to him that there’s only one person who could have pulled him out. He worries then. He worries that Bucky’s alive out there somewhere, alive but alone and confused and lost in his own head that’s been bleached too many times to count. Steve worries so much that for once he misses the irony; once again, he was carried home by his shield.

Of course his other shield, the one that’s indestructible and made of metal (although Bucky sort of fits that description now), is still missing. He has no time- and not a lot of motivation if he’s being honest- to look for it once he gets out of the hospital. All his time is divided between physiotherapy and resting and combing every square inch of planet earth for James Buchanan Barnes. 

He doesn’t have to look for long.

On a Tuesday morning in June, Steve opens his door to a shell, a ghost; a version of Bucky that he’d hoped against hope would fade with the winter soldier. This Bucky is dirty and tired and frail, but he’s real. He comes back with some pieces missing, some new ones having taken their place; scar tissue, like time has been known to grow.

Bucky comes back with Steve’s shield (the round one).

Steve had thought he’d never see it again.

He thought that about a lot of things.

“Bucky?” Steve whispers once again, ready to hear the crushing sound of “Who?”

“With your shield or upon it, right Stevie?” Bucky replies. “You dropped this.”

“You came back.” Steve is awestruck and dumbfounded and at a loss for anymore words.

“End of the line, remember?” Bucky nearly collapses before Steve pulls him into his arms, the metal shield dropping to the floor in a resounding clang that sounds a lot less hollow than it would have a few days ago. The Spartans didn’t have words for when a man’s shield comes back on its own. Steve doesn’t either.

“I love you.” He cries quietly into Bucky’s metal shoulder.

Bucky smiles (for the first time in seventy years).

“Ditto.”

**Author's Note:**

> [ my headcanon for their 1940s apartment](http://danascullays.tumblr.com/post/119426048499/this-is-my-headcanon-for-steve-and-buckys)
> 
>  
> 
> [come visit me on tumblr!](http://www.danascullays.tumblr.com)


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